Coffee Can Be Dangerous To Your Health
by GeekMom
Summary: A short and sweet romp following a caffeinated rabbit through the woods. In honor of Shutterbug5269's 47th birthday. Yep I'm 50 weeks early, not two weeks late. All rights and my gratitude belongs to Marlowe and friends. These characters are not mine, but as Mark says in the story, "No, oh no. I write them because you've made their universe so compelling."


_A/N - This is a birthday present for_ _Shutterbug5269. I started following his stories a while ago, but just recently connected with him on Twitter. I don't know him very well except I do know that he is a Barista. This makes him one of my favorite people in itself. I thought Caskett and coffee and the Adirondack Mountains: there has to be a story there somewhere._

 _Shutterbug5269's birthday was actually 13 days ago, but this bunny hopped around for a while, took an unexpected and dark turn, but I beat it into submission and now here's the story._

 _Feel free to wish him a Happy Birthday in your comments or harass, I mean visit his Twitter or PM him here._

 _Enjoy!_

 _~GeekMom_

* * *

 **Coffee Can Be Dangerous To Your Health**

Mark looked up from the newspaper article he was reading about the Back Country Killer. The press dubbed whoever was responsible for a string of three unsolved murders along the local hiking trails a catchy and terrifying moniker over the past six months. It did not help sales. The marginally discordant jangling of the tarnished bells hanging atop the wooden and glass door caught his attention. He stood up from his signature countertop lean, the one that said he was in complete control, and that his domain over the indigene or transients of the mountainside roasting house was not to be questioned. Cue Grieg's _Hall of the Mountain King_.

That's what it alleged; in reality he was simply tired and his knees hurt. Long days of mixing, blending, grinding and frothing, not to mention maintenance and general upkeep, followed by his writing at night sometimes took a heftier toll on him than he wanted to admit.

It surprised him to have customers at all at that time of the morning. It was nearly the middle of the day; the college crowd had gotten their daily hits of caffeinated concoctions of sugar, milk, the prevalent flavor of the hour and a little coffee thrown in for good measure, hours ago. His mid-mornings were usually quiet. He'd dismissed the part-timers to class: happy for the solitude, he cleared the half a dozen tables, and floor of the inevitable litter of pastry crumbs and napkins and wiped the sticky residue from the chairs, which was always there, spilled, and ignored by the younger generation. He liked the college kids, truly; they gave him a reason to excel at his job, but they were freaking messy.

The door opened and a tall, gorgeous woman strode over the threshold like she owned the place. She had an air of confidence that was not only unusual in his place, but also sexy as hell. She slowed long enough to survey the inside of the café and Mark was glad he'd added a little extra effort to bring out the shine on the veined marble table and counter tops.

The woman looked behind her and as she did, her caramel and honey locks of loosely curled hair that wasn't captured in the uncommonly lucky hair band bounced about her shoulders as if it was joyful to be a part of her. A smirk found its way to her lips, which quickly morphed into a radiant smile. Mark craned his neck to see out of the door: eager to see what could possibly bring that glorious smile to this goddess' face.

A tall, dark haired man followed her. Mark got the impression that that summed up their relationship. The woman seemed to be very much in charge and the man followed. That was the impression, but also that he led from behind. The man was broad shouldered and had a kind face. He wore a teasing smirk on his lips as well. He was concentrating on the unfolded, unwieldy map he was carrying and almost ran into the back of the woman.

Mark smiled; like a well-rehearsed dance routine, it looked as if they had performed this routine before.

They were both dressed for hiking and indeed, Mark hadn't heard the tell-tale crunch of gravel under tires before the dissonant bells clanged. They were definitely from the city; they had that air of Manhattan culture and city erudition combined with a slight fish-out-of-water look to them, although they both suppressed that fairly well. They weren't dressed as posers either: there was no designer trail-wear or Gucci backpacks. Each wore comfortable jeans, boots, and tee-shirts. The woman had a denim shirt tied around her waist over a periwinkle blue tank top. The man's well-worn deep blue and green plaid casual shirt was open but he still wore it over a navy vee-neck tee. They both had day packs and water bottles. She held a compass that she slipped into her back pocket.

"Just…if we," said the man.

She smirked at him again. "Stop," she said as she placed her palm on his chest, closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply through her nose. Opening her eyes, she said, "This is an oasis. We'll figure out where we are right after coffee. Don't you agree that our brains could use the benefit of legal and plentiful stimulants?"

"But, you said…" He scowled. "I _thought_ we were trying to cut back," he said teasingly.

He looked all around the shop from the doorstep, his coffee quay. Mark could tell he was observant to a fault from the way he really regarded the shop. He had patrons that had been coming every day at the same time of day for years who, he was sure, couldn't name the color of the roughhewn walls. They were pale yellow above the chair rail and ecru on the wainscoting on the lower half of the walls. Blue cotton lace covered the windows. Hanging on the walls were black and white and color photographs of local scenery, back woods and people strategically cast among folksy wooden plaques and obligatory silk plant arrangements.

Castle especially liked the shots of people: they were the character studies. A toddler sitting atop an inverted purple sand bucket; a young couple walking hand in hand under a gazebo of lilacs; a haggard, lined older man in subdued light: the smoke of his pipe curled and climbed around his head and worn cap. He could write a whole damn book based upon the photographer's skill in capturing personalities and moments.

The woman placed one hand on her hip. "During the week, only: discipline during the week, freedom on the weekends." She grabbed his hand and dragged him fully into the shop.

"It's…" he scrunched up his face as if trying to see something in the distance. "Uh…Friday."

"But technically it's our weekend: I'm on call on Sunday."

He melodramatically looked at his watch, and then shrugged and then held his hand out guiding her to the counter and Mark, leaving the door to swing closed and the bells to bang their cacophonous descant above the customers' greetings.

"Hi," said the man, smiling as they approached the counter. "Apparently coffee is an acceptable controlled substance on the weekend: our weekend, which is today."

Mark smiled; he'd found the character his story had been missing. It was one of the reasons he worked at Adirondack Roasters: he could people-watch. He'd written so many customers. Most of them innocent bystanders; fillers for the main action or a supporting cast, but the occasional prick that wandered into his shop just to be an asshole, well they became the victims. Mark had killed so many snooty, stuck-up, pretentious ass-hats from the city in his time that he would have been considered a notorious serial killer if any of it had been real.

"Hey," he greeted, "Can I help you?" he asked while sensibly maintaining eye contact with the man, although his eyes dearly wanted to roam over the angel standing next to him.

The man smiled again and held out his hand. "I'm Rick and this is Kate," he introduced his companion who nodded and smiled. "She would dearly love a skinny latte, two pumps sugar-free vanilla, and I'd like your best cup of Sumatra Lintong, cream and two sugars." Having taken the map from the man's hands his companion turned to claim a table. He smiled and leaned forward placing both hands on the counter top as if he was about to share a secret of life the universe and everything. He raised an eyebrow and whispered, "Let it brew slow-leee," he dragged each syllable for emphasis. "I don't know when I'll be enjoying the rich delicious beans next." He cocked an eyebrow over his shoulder in Kate's direction. "I need to savor this."

Mark grinned conspiratorially and set to work.

His companion backhanded him in the arm to which the man's smirk became a grimace. "Ow," he pouted as he rubbed his arm. "Out and out police brutality. I have a witness." Rick scanned the barista's apron until his eyes landed upon his name tag. "Mark…here, will attest," he declared.

Kate claimed the table nearest to the counter, but within a step to the door. _'Strategic,'_ thought Mark. She opened the map and refolded it along the creases made by the manufacturer's, not the newer ones created by Rick.

"Mister, I've seen way worse than that when people are in need of their coffee," Mark said with a smirk of his own.

"Really? I'd love to hear a story or two."

Kate looked up from the map and gave the barista an out. "Castle, not everybody likes to tell stories or talk for that matter."

"No," Mark answered. "I actually like to make up stories…I like to write…" He stopped himself and looked more closely at his customers, the name registering. "Are you?" He stammered and started again. "Are you Richard Castle?"

Castle nodded and beamed. Kate rolled her eyes.

Mark wiped his hand on his apron and shook the author's hand. "Oh my God, I've read every…well you probably hear that all the time…but I have." Mark delivered the latte to Kate. "And…oh!" Kate could actually see the light bulb go on over his head. "You're Kate Beckett: the real Nikki Heat. God this is great."

Beckett smiled as best as she could. With the year that they had had, public recognition was becoming a more common experience. His disappearance had made national headlines, she had been interviewed numerous times, and then his recovery and the mystery surrounding it all made them too much of a curiosity for most people to ignore. She had suggested the hike as a way of escape from the gawkers in the city. Communing with nature had always been her way to reconnect and center herself. She had seen the stress take its toll on Castle in the months since he'd been back. They needed the fresh open air: he was suffocating under the scrutiny in the city. They packed and headed for her dad's cabin right after they left the precinct after a particularly difficult case. It had turned out well, but Espo had been held hostage on a subway car for hours by a man with a bomb. Kate shook herself out of the memories.

Mark was perceptive: he had had plenty of practice reading people in his character studies. He read the detective's weariness. "You let me know if you need anything else." He grinned kindly. "I can even tell you where you are, if you'd like, I'm pretty familiar with the trails around here."

"Thank you, Mark," Castle said as he came up behind him. He looked at Kate. "How's the latte?"

She started to answer, but Mark blushed and apologized, "Oh man, I'll get your coffee. I'm sorry. I'll be right back."

Castle watched the flustered barista head back behind the counter. "Fun," he said turning back to Kate. He smiled cheekily. "It looks like you have a fan."

"He's not a fan of mine, Castle. He said he's read all _your_ books. He'd have to read police reports if he's my fan. That's the only writing you can't claim."

"He said he was a writer. I'd like to encourage him. Do you mind if I invite him to sit for a minute?"

Mark delivered Castle's dark rich cup of coffee at that moment. Kate glared, but Castle ignored her. "Mark, can you join us?" He looked around the shop. "I'm gonna take a guess and say that this is not your busy time."

"No…I mean yeah, I can sit for a minute. Of course."

"So you're a writer?"

"It's a hobby."

"That's so cool. What do you write?"

Kate watched the two men volley the polite conversation back and forth. She didn't really follow the conversation until she heard, "Nikki Heat fan fiction." She whipped her attention back to them. Mark was animatedly telling Castle about an adventure that had been inspired by Castle's characters who had been inspired by her and their friends. Kate's head spun.

Castle had a highly entertained look on his face. He'd heard of fan fiction of course, but had never gone to the site. He had no idea Nikki had inspired writers to spin additional tales. "That's fantastic."

"You're not upset?"

Castle tilted his head. "Why would I be?

"Well, I'm using your characters in my stories."

"You're not writing porn, right? I've heard stories about the fan fiction sites. There was one that satirized Connelly's Harry Bosch only his name was Hairy Crotch..." Castle chuckled, somewhat evilly.

Kate scoffed. She looked him dead in the eye and said, "Page one hundred and five."

"That's not fan fiction porn," he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "I write romance and erotica in the context of the characters and story, their feelings, not only the naughty bits and mechanics." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started a search.

"No, I…I don't write smut," Mark offered. "Well, only the once. I was kind of dared to."

Castle chuckled as he held up his search results to Beckett. She read a couple of paragraphs of a Heat and Rook online fan fiction called Slick Heat. Kate's eyes bugged out of her head.

Castle who was highly amused, smiled again, and continued "And you're respecting the characters?"

"Yes, absolutely."

"Are you making any money from it?"

"No, oh no. I write them because you've made their universe so compelling."

Castle smiled again. "What an incredible compliment, Mark."

The flawed bells rang out again. Castle cringed at the discordance. Mark raised his head in surprise. Seriously, the shop was never that busy at that time of day and even less so with a psychopathic killer on the loose. He looked over the pair who ambled into the shop and suppressed a shudder. _'What was it about some people,'_ he mused, _'that could immediately drop an icy cold brick into the pit of your stomach?'_ He stood and crossed to the imagined safety that the Formica and particle board counter top afforded.

The two men who walked in wore flannel shirts and worn blue jeans; they each wore mud spattered work boots, not hikers. There were dark brown smudges on all four knees and splashes of the same liquid, something that looked like furniture varnish, on their shirts as well. They appeared to not have bathed in a while.

The taller one was well over six feet and reedy; almost sickly thin. His skin stretched thinly over his skeleton. His eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark shadows. The stubble on his unshaven face resembled rough sandpaper.

The shorter of the two couldn't have been more than five foot, five, but Mark knew he was the leader of their partnership: the shot-caller. The man's greasy hair that hung in clumps brushed his shoulders, leaving a stain on his shirt. He wore a straggly beard and was more rotund than his partner. Each of the men was armed with a hunting knife in a well-used leather case on each of their hips.

Mark was used to seeing and regrettably, smelling people who had only just come down from the trail after spending days hiking, but there was something different: something menacing about those two. He thought that it might just be his imagination. The same imagination that was responsible for the gruesome and dark descriptions in _Ten Weeks of the Ripper,_ a Heat/Rook fan fiction, was now conspiring with the newspaper articles about the Back Country Killer. He swallowed nervously and fiddled with the wand on the milk steamer.

One cased the shop openly, brazenly. He nodded in the direction of the two hikers, the only other occupants of the shop besides the counter clerk: a man and woman sitting at the closest table, looking over their map. They seemed to be unaware or unconcerned with the newcomer's presence. The other man seemed to be nonchalantly inspecting the ceiling.

Castle sat up straighter and stiffened as he realized that he was looking for cameras. He swallowed and made eye contact with his partner. Kate was fully as in tune to the change in atmosphere in the little shop. It was as if the sun had been shining, warming and welcoming and then hidden suddenly behind the gloom of a sudden squall.

One glance into her eyes and he knew that she felt the same vibe off the two. She casually reached for her backpack which she had slung over the chair behind her. Even though they were off duty and out of their jurisdiction, she had her service Glock and badge in her backpack. She unzipped it as quietly as she could so as not to draw the attention of the thugs.

Mark, in the meanwhile, had retreated to the haven of his espresso machine. He turned and asked, "Can I help you?" He hoped they simply wanted coffee, to go.

"Sure," said the smaller of the two. He rested on elbow on the counter and swung his body around to survey the rest of the shop. The taller man hovered conspicuously by the door.

"Kate," Castle murmured quietly.

She nodded and stood grabbing her back pack. She tilted her head to the ladies' room door and leaned over to kiss him. "Got to hit the ladies' room before we hit the trail," she said louder than necessary. She gulped down the remainder of her latte, smiled brilliantly at her husband and purposefully walked to the back of the shop. Tall-dude and shot-caller watched her every move. Castle watched them.

Kate locked herself in a stall and opened her backpack to retrieve her Glock. She felt panic rising like bile when she couldn't find it. "Damn it," she muttered. She remembered that Castle had insisted on carrying the gun. He took its weight in his backpack and he said that if they needed it, it would be easier for her to reach in the pack on his back instead of her own. She hadn't argued.

Castle sipped his coffee and took stock of the men. He was sure that something was about to happen. He was as sure as he had been in the bank just before he and his mother were held hostage along with twenty others. He felt it in the pit of his stomach: his gut.

He remembered that Kate's gun was in his backpack and sloshed drops of his coffee onto his pants. "Shit," he said which earned him a chuckle from the creepy brothers. Mark darted around the counter with a towel. He handed it to Castle. "It's all right: not even too hot anymore."

Apparently, Mark felt that the shit was about to hit the fan as well. His eyes were wide and he nervously watched the men.

Castle mouthed, "Okay?"

Mark nodded and took the empty cups and the towel and disappeared behind the counter to the sink behind a roaster.

Folding his map, Castle made a show of stretching and then reaching for his backpack. He unzipped the main compartment and lowered the map into the zipper. He felt the cold, but comforting weapon nestled in the mesh compartment. Beckett emerged from the bathroom and brightly asked, "Ready to go?"

"Um, yeah. Okay…here take my backpack and wait outside, okay?" he said as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket. He walked to the counter and confidently sidled in front of shot-caller. "Hey Mark?" He called.

Mark popped his head out. He saw Castle and came to the counter.

Castle reached over the counter and clasped the barista's hand. "That had to be the best cup of Lintong I've ever had, my pants even think so." He slid a couple of bills across the counter.

"Thank you," Mark responded, but was confused.

"Do you have your book with you? I'd love to sign it for you," Castle said. Mark nodded and went to the back. He didn't know if Castle and Beckett were going to leave. He didn't know if these were his last moments on Earth. He didn't know if he had purely built up the danger in his head. _'This must be what going crazy felt like,'_ he thought as he retrieved his worn copy of _Raging Heat_.

Castle pivoted on his heel. He smiled the media smile at the two men whom, now that he was closer, so needed a bath. He flexed a thumb and jabbed it into his chest. "I'm a writer. The barista likes my books," he boasted.

"What do you write?" Shot-caller's teeth were yellow. Castle had to forcibly look away so as not to gag.

"Fiction," he stated. He doubted if either had ever even picked up a book, let alone read one and didn't feel the need to elaborate.

"Is this okay?" Mark asked, holding the copy aloft.

Castle grinned. "It's perfect. Look at that." He held it up to shot-caller's face. "He's read this more than once." He opened the cover and snatched a pen off the counter and scribbled hastily on the first page. He handed the open book back to Mark. "You should read that. I'm feeling particularly witty today." He winked and then held Mark's gaze for a moment.

The bells dinged their awkward tones as he opened and closed the door behind him. Mark inhaled and blew the breath out forcefully. He read the inscription, thought it was odd and pushed the open book aside and looked at the men. He told himself that they were merely customers. Yeah.

"Have you made up your minds?" He asked as cheerfully as he could muster.

The shorter of the two slithered forward. "I think we have."

* * *

Castle exited the building and walked to the end of the covered porch and around the corner of the building to where Beckett was waiting.

"Does your gut…"

"Yeah, without a doubt. Shot-caller guy surreptitiously unhooked the hilt of his blade or what I guess what he thought was surreptitious while I was waiting for Mark. I didn't see any evidence that they had anything besides really well-used, dirty knives. Beckett, do you think that they might be responsible for the killings?"

"They'd get my vote," Beckett said, pursing her lips distastefully. "Did you warn Mark?"

Castle nodded. "I owe him a book signature. I think he's already wary of them. Are you ready?"

Kate nodded and followed Castle around the front corner of the building, onto the long wooden porch hugging the walls. He stopped at a window and peered through the lace of the curtain. He watched Shot-Caller jump the counter and shove Mark back against the syrups rack. The bottles tipped and clashed together. Castle urgently waved her past him.

Beckett slinked by him, her Glock locked in her palm in an isosceles brace, toward the door. The bells would be a problem. They'd have to open the noisy door and enter in one swift move.

Mark turned to draw a small black coffee from the urn, but before he could get there he heard a thump land on the linoleum behind him. Someone smacked into his back and he lost his footing and nearly toppled the bottles of flavored syrups. He grabbed the counter and steadied himself.

"Open the cash register."

The command curled around Mark's head like smoke would from a pipe. He felt the press of the nicked blade against his throat. It all happened in slow motion. Mark raised his hands and the knife was removed he nodded. Turning toward the register, he noticed that Tall-dude had his back to the door. He saw a sliver of a shadow behind the man on the outside of the door. He remembered the strange notation Castle had written, "When you hear bells, don't be alarmed: be a duck."

In the next moments, time sped up to normal and kept going to double-time.

He heard the door open. Mark suddenly knew what the author had meant: duck! He hit the deck: flattened himself on the chilly floor. The bells clanged, a woman was shouting. He heard one knife drop. Mark held his hands protectively over his head, but turned so he could see shot-caller.

"Drop your weapons!" Kate roared as she burst through the door. Tall-dude took the violent impact of the door squarely in the back. It knocked him off balance, but he recovered and spun. The knife he held clutched in his hand came uncomfortably close to Castle's chest. Castle side stepped and ducked while Kate kicked his wrist and the knife clattered to the floor. Castle dove for the knife while his wife twisted tall-dude's arm back behind his back.

Shot-caller's focus was drawn to his scuzzy companion's demise. He appeared to have made up his mind and had flipped his knife, ready to throw it when Mark scissored his legs and knocked shot-caller back into the espresso bar. Mark reached and switched on the steam, which came pouring out of the machine and onto his hand making him drop the knife harmlessly onto the rubber mat behind the counter. It bounced once and landed on the floor. Its clang echoed as badly as the bells.

Kate passed the subdued thief to her husband, who held the man lying face down under his knee. Kate immediately trained her Glock on shot-caller. The man tumbled backward and then was burned by steam. Shot-caller yelped and sprung backward. He turned around, rubbing his scalded face, to look down the barrel of a semi-automatic handgun.

"Don't move," Beckett said quietly. Shot-caller did as he was told. "Now put your hands in the air."

Mark inched his way up from under the countertop, checking his surroundings as he did so.

"Mark, are you okay?" Castle called.

"Um, yeah. Yeah, I'm good." He collapsed onto the seat at the same table Castle and Beckett had occupied mere moments before.

Beckett brought the second half of the duo around the counter and forced him down on the floor with his cohort. Castle shifted his position so he held both of the would-be thieves under his weight.

Beckett walked to the table and checked on Mark. "Thanks," she said sincerely.

"Um, yeah, I mean, you're welcome."

"What?" Castle asked over the din of the sirens and crunching gravel from the local police cars in the parking lot. Kate had called them while she waited in the parking lot for Castle.

"Mark saved my life," Beckett reported.

Castle broke into a wide smile. "Then, thank you so very much, Mark. You're a true hero."

"Oh well, it was nothing. Just seemed like the right thing to do."

"See Beckett?" Kate rolled her eyes: she knew her husband's tone of voice. He was getting ready to make some asinine declaration. "It must be a writer's proclivity to protect you. There are a lot of us. If we were to organize, you'd never have to worry again."

Mark looked back and forth between the two, not sure if Castle was serious.

"The only proclivity I need is for you to have is to make sure I get another coffee. I think we're going to be here a while and…"

Castle and Beckett finished it together. "It's our weekend."

* * *

After an investigation by local and state police, it turned out that the creepy brothers were a part of a back woods gang of six. They'd made a blood pact under the previous eclipse when the moon was red. Shot-caller turned out to be chief psychopath. He was charismatic, in his own way and appealed to the younger men who turned on him faster than Mark could draw a black coffee.

Castle, Beckett, and Mark kept in touch before and during the trial. They always stopped for a coffee at Mark's place on their way into and out of the city.

The story appeared as a Jameson Rook/Nikki Heat fan fiction: _Coffee Can Be Dangerous to Your Health._ Of course the names and specific circumstances had been altered.

The very first review posted was from a person using the pen name, _Who's Heat's Daddy?_ It read, _'Terrific story. I almost feel as if I was there. Wait…'_


End file.
